An Ode to Orville Redenbacher

I saw you on aisle twelve at the grocery store. "Orville Redenbacher's Gourmet Popping Corn" was written on you in big, cursive letters. You lured me in with your smiling, awkward picture and promises of 30-calorie servings. I put you into my grocery cart and dreamed of the "94% Fat Free Butter" snacking I would soon enjoy.

If only I had known the tragedy that would follow.

I took you to work with me and gave you a featured spot on the top of my desk. "Hands off," the sticky note I put on you warned. "This delicious and healthy Orville Redenbacher popcorn belongs to me."

Fierce were the stares I gave all co-workers who glanced in your general direction. Unnerving were the verbal assaults I hurled at anyone who stopped to read the extra-large sticky note I put on you. The stapler thrown at the head of the individual who touched you while reaching for a pencil served notice to all of the obvious:

You were mine.

Like a pirate opening a treasure chest filled with gold coins or Rosie O'Donnell opening a bag of McDonald's hamburgers, I eagerly took one of the ten packs of popcorn you held inside.

"How is it that William Shakespeare never wrote a sonnet about you," I asked out loud while throwing a pen at the aforementioned individual who was returning my pencil (and stapler). His screams of "my eye, my eye" could not drown the sound of the singing angels as I held you up high.

Into the microwave you went as I followed the cooking directions and pressed START. As I left to use the restroom, I could hear the "pop, pop" music you were belting for all to hear. As I washed my hands, I could hear the faint sound of an ambulance or firetruck.

"Oh no," I thought to myself. "My popcorn!"

I rushed out of the restroom. You were in pain, I could feel it. My path to you was blocked by paramedics attending to the individual who stole my stapler, pencil and pen.

"Thank goodness," I thought to myself as I pushed my way through the pile of people. "That must have been the noise I heard. My popcorn is safe."

And then I smelled it.

I ran to you and opened the microwave door. You were gone. The magnificent, pure thing I had known just minutes earlier had been replaced by a burnt bag of crap. A tear fell down my cheek as I held you close.

You left this world before your time. I knew then why blues music was invented - to document somber moments just like this one. You lived your life like a candle in the wind, never knowing who to cling to when the rain set in. And now, you're gone.

I blame the one-eyed stapler thief.